“Travel,” said an old Stork, who had nursed my husband. “You will start inconsolable, you will return calmed if not consoled. Many griefs have been starved out and left behind on the king’s highways.” This Stork was esteemed as a very sensible creature, but the world had hardened her heart: I would sooner kill my children than stifle grief! My children, alas! where are they? A number of friendly Crows, our neighbours, lent weight to the Stork’s advice by urging me to leave the old scenes, and I did leave the place, although I almost felt certain that my husband and little ones would reappear some day.
Talk of travelling! why, I have travelled without halting almost for the last fifty years, but it did not take me a fiftieth part of that time to find out that the worldly old Stork was right.
From the moment of entering seriously on my journeys, I was reminded of this proverb by a celebrated moralist.—“One travels in order to relate one’s travels.” I determined to follow this maxim, and accordingly, armed with note book, set out to explore the world. As occasion presented itself, I related my adventures, and was fortunate in securing listeners who, however, were afraid to applaud what might prove unpopular. At last a bird (in truth no friend of mine), well-known in fashionable circles, hazarded his patronage, saying aloud with the most perfect assurance, that my tales were decidedly good. That made my fortune, not that my tales were improved by this notice, but they became sanctioned, so to speak. Soon my stories flew from beak to beak; I found them everywhere. However little one deserves praise, it is always flattering, I therefore continue.
AN OLD CASTLE.
There was once an old castle—I begin story-telling after the good old fashion, it somehow gives one a fair start, and it is expected—
There was once an old castle, the castle of . . . it neither matters what nor where.
At a time when France boasted almost impregnable castles, this one had often resisted the fiercest onslaughts, although it had been taken and retaken times without number, when the loves of valiant knights for maidens fair caused many bitter feuds. The castle during troublous times had been overthrown little by little, so that almost nothing remained of the original building.
It is sufficient to say, it was taken and pillaged during the Revolution of ’93, which demolished many old strongholds; after that of 1815 it was about to be restored, and its fortune was visibly brightening when overtaken by the Revolution of 1830, so ably described by the Hare in the opening pages of this book.
The old fortress was then deprived of its rank and ancient aristocratic fame, and in its degradation, sold to a banker, an individual who, although rich, was ignorant of the archæological fitness of things. So it turned out that the purchaser while devoting wealth and ambition to his new property, gave it the final blow.
Masons were seen at work everywhere, filling up holes, plastering and whitewashing walls; just as if seeking to impart a delicate grace and refinement to a rugged old rock. A terrace was built (renaissance!), supposed to be in keeping with the old remaining parts of the castle, and the chapel became a billiard room. The old place was thoroughly rebuilt, and the new owner satisfied. There was a little of everything about it. Every style under heaven figured in the edifice, the heterogeneous mixture being hideous enough, to disturb the reposing dust of ancient Byzantine architects. For all that, the restoration was much applauded by the courtiers of this king of bullion.